


The Last Time You See Me

by CumberWubWubWub



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eating Disorders, Flashbacks, Insomnia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:09:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberWubWubWub/pseuds/CumberWubWubWub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is resurfacing in London after dismantling the entirety of Moriarty's web. John Watson knows that he is the next, and last, target of the consulting detective. </p><p>Original Prompt:</p><p>"John is Moriarty's Moran. How he survives (or tries to) post-TRF because the only man he had ever loved, the only man who had prevented him from killing himself in his drab, tiny bedsit had swallowed a bullet for the thrill of the game."</p><p>Dedicated to half-open. Merry Christmas <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize greatly if you are not happy with it. It's not exactly what the prompt is asking for, but this was the only way that I could figure out how to work it. ALSO, if there are any facts that I messed up, please feel free to correct me. I don't know why, but I feel like I missed something big, and I can't find anything, and it's really messing with my head.

_January 23rd_

John Watson, former soldier. John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. John Watson, former assassin. John Watson, former lover of Jim Moriarty. John Watson. _John Watson._

His own name sounded unfamiliar to him. He used these exercises to remind himself of who he was and who he had been, but recently he was becoming more and more detached, unaware of his constant slip from reality, from his own consciousness. It was that moment, that earth-shattering moment, that pulled him from the waking world. When he had discovered Jim, the only man that he had ever loved, with a bullet through his skull and a heart of stone. For the game, he always said. For the thrill of the blood pumping through his veins and the excitement, the curiosity of _Sherlock Holmes_ – him and his extraordinary mind – Jim couldn’t wait for a conclusion. He wanted an end to the chasing and plotting, he was bored, of course, and what other way was there than to end his own life and know for a fact that Sherlock had no choice other than suicide? Jim _knew_ that he was going to win. He knew that he could defeat Sherlock, and the government, and the world. And did John really matter at all in that equation? Did Moriarty really care about what he was leaving behind?

It didn’t matter. The deed had been done, and the bullet swallowed. And that left John spiraling into an abyss of cheap, scratchy pillowcases and diagnosed insomnia. This was how it had been before Jim careened into John’s life and made his mark where no one could see it. Post-Afghanistan and suicidal, to put it bluntly, John Watson was in a pretty bad place before the excitement of Jim. A gun in his mouth every night, tears slipping past and soaking into his sheets, willing himself to pull the trigger but passing out before he could make his wish a reality.

It’s been three years since Jim took the demons away and gave John new ones. And it’s been an entire year since Jim abandoned his network and his lover.

It hasn’t been the same, to say the least.

_February 2 nd_

That’s it. The end of everything; all of the work that Jim had done has been obliterated and everyone that Jim had hired have been killed. Except for John. And that meant that he was the next target.

Sherlock Holmes had been slowly resurfacing in the world of the living. He made himself known by the trail of blood that he left in his wake, travelling as far as Jim’s extended network did and killing everyone involved. The last kill had been near London, near John, and he expected that he didn’t have much time. And it didn’t really matter.

Sherlock’s return meant that Jim definitely wasn’t coming back. Sherlock was the entire reason for the game, and if he was back and Jim wasn’t . . . well, there certainly wasn’t anymore hope to be found in breathless nightmares and desolate bars.

John stirred in his bed at 10:12 pm that night, unable to fall asleep. The insomnia wasn’t new, but his frustration with it was. Jim had been on his mind in all the minutes and hours since John figured out that he would soon be dead by no determinable cause. Moments with Jim played like a dream in the back of his mind, but even sweeter because of his consciousness, Jim lingering behind his eyelids, the taste of him intoxicating and familiar.

John sat up, his back straight and aching with fatigue. His eyes drifted shut, but he was no longer tired. He felt himself succumbing to the memories.

After a few quick moments of consideration, John grabbed an apple, donned his jacket, and took a deep breath before quietly sneaking out of the front door of his small, isolated flat.

\--

_“Oh, Johnny boy!” Jim called from his monitoring lab. “I have a job for you.”_

_John answered Jim’s call – faithful and obedient like he had been and always would be. “Anything interesting?”_

_As John entered the dark room only lit by computer monitors, Jim turned in his chair an answered John with a devilish smile meant just for him and a beckoning little finger. “When are my cases ever uninteresting?”_

_John leaned over Jim’s shoulder and pressed a quick kiss to his neck.  “Just tell me what I need to do.”_

_Jim pointed to the screen, where security cameras taped the everyday goings on in any place that Jim considered important. If this case was for John, then the location would be in or near London. As it turned out, this case didn’t require much travel – John knew that the street being monitored was only a few blocks from their current hideout._

_Jim curled up in his seat and rested his chin on his knees, a faint smile on his face._

_“There’s the woman we’ve been tracking. Ms. Yearly, as it would seem, has finally come out of hiding. I need you to intercept her and make sure that she does not enter the bank. You must contact my client’s men to let them know of her exact location and ensure that the assassination is carried out. This client is very important, John. Can you make daddy happy?”_

_John gave Jim affirmation and gathered up everything he needed including contact information for the client and the information of everyone involved. He needed careful strategy for this one, if the client was truly as important as Jim insisted._

_As John left, Jim gave him a searing kiss on the lips and whispered a promise of a reward for his hard work._

_John did what he was asked._

_However, that had been the first time that he had ever been shot in a case._

\--

John winced at the painful images that flashed into his head. He was by no means a weak man, but anyone would remember the pain of their own blood flooding the pavement and a somewhat successful two-week home treatment as an unpleasant experience. Somehow, he had been caught in the crossfire when Ms. Yearly was being shot at. John knew better though. Jim’s client had probably ordered for John to be injured as revenge for Jim asking for a higher pay for the job. John understood, and he didn’t complain. Jim took care of it anyway. He always did.


	2. Anticipation

_February 12 th_

John had been tracking Sherlock’s progress through England, watching him travel to Brighton, then Hertfordshire, then Cardiff, and then finally back to London where he had been the previous week. John had absolutely no idea what business Sherlock had in any of those places, but he did work with Scotland Yard, so John supposed that it might be for a case. He also noted that Sherlock had been attempting to locate John himself, and John constantly updated his information about Sherlock’s progress.

When Sherlock arrived back in London, John was anxious. He thought that he had missed something. He kept cameras positioned in every hiding place in the buildings next to his and in every area from which one could see through his window. A handgun was constantly near him, and when he walked into another room, he would take the weapon with him.

John and Sherlock skirted around each other, watching, tracking, gathering information. John figured that Sherlock knew who he was and the general area that he was living in. The man was brilliant, after all, and he had been in deep with Jim’s plans and network in these past years. It would be irrational to believe that Sherlock was anything other than well-informed.

When John considered the situation from every perspective, he came to the conclusion that he was scared. Before Jim, John had been a sweet, gentle man who fought for queen and country. In that time with Jim, he had become more merciless and hardened, yes, but Jim had always reassured John that he was in control of the entire situation, that nobody died if he didn’t want them to. John was holding the gun. John called the shots.

Now John was alone, utterly and completely, and he was scared for his life. He wasn’t in control anymore. Jim couldn’t comfort him before this confrontation and tell him that everything would work out because “ _Jimmy will take care of you, gorgeous._ ” John honestly had no idea what the outcome of this would be.

And he desperately wished for Jim.

~~

That night John had a breakdown. He was sleeping in his twin bed, fitfully, dreaming of Jim and guns and ink and water. Pain flared through his body – imaginary pain that had long since really disappeared. The ink clouded his vision, and the water washed it away, and when his vision cleared he saw Jim. He reached out, to grab him, to shake him and yell at him, but Jim smiled, and his visage transformed into that of the consulting detective. Sherlock cracked his neck and advanced.

John woke up screaming.

_February 13 th_

John didn’t know what he was doing. If he was in his right mind he would turn around and go back to his flat to try to figure out a plan. He wasn’t in his right mind. He was panicked. The image of Sherlock and the maniacal glint in his eyes was enough to make John scream.

John wasn’t brilliant. He wasn’t Jim. Jim had been the only match for Sherlock, and even between them, Jim had lost. This was a losing game for John, and he knew it deep in his soul. Sherlock was closing in on him. John had been watching, of course, but he had no _plan_. He didn’t know what he was going to do once they finally encountered each other.

So John was bringing the game to Sherlock.

The encounter would not be today, no, John wasn’t ready for that. He wasn’t clever, he wasn’t planning anything elaborate. He was revealing himself to Sherlock, and hopefully he wouldn’t be killed in the process.

John arrived at 221B Baker Street, and he checked the address four times before drawing in a deep breath. He would be watched, of course, by either Sherlock or Mycroft, but he hoped that he would be left alone.

He extracted an envelope from his coat pocket, with yellowed paper and a red-wax seal, something that Sherlock would remember from his last case. The consulting detective would surely make the connection.

John crouched to place the envelope in front of the door, then stood up again and contemplate what in the hell he was actually doing. He was leading Sherlock straight to him. This letter was the final part of the game.

This was the last chance for John to back out. And he didn’t. He walked away, the letter lying firmly at the base of 221B Baker Street. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give any feedback you want <3


	3. Confrontation

_February 16 th_

This was it. This was the day. John couldn’t go back now. Sherlock knew who he was and that he was trying to meet with him, and if he didn’t hold on to his promise today then Sherlock would hunt him down. This was the easy way out, comparatively, but that didn’t stop John from shaking.

What purpose did he have, with Jim gone? He didn’t have any work, he didn’t have any family, or any friends. He had his life. And maybe he could fix it. Maybe he could walk away with it.

John closed his eyes and thought of Jim. His face was important to remember, and right then John was able to draw strength from Jim’s smile, the thought of him looking down shyly as John teased him. John himself smiled at the thought of Jim in his pajamas, his hair disheveled and completely uncharacteristic for the consulting criminal.

It was easier, in the earlier days, just after Jim has swallowed that bullet, because of the piercing, unbearable pain. It had been easier to keep going, because even though that pain seemed as if it would kill him, it gave him the desire for relief. The pain drove him to try to eliminate it, to get up and attempt to help himself out of the grave he had dug for himself. The grave that Jim’s death had thrown him into. And in that pain, he had truly felt alive, productive, something similar to what he had felt with Jim, but in a more twisted way. Eventually, when he had “accepted” Jim’s death, and knew that there was absolutely no way that the man that he had loved was coming back, he felt absolutely empty. His insides and everything that made him laugh and cry and _breathe_ had been slowly carved out of him. He was a walking carcass.

Jim’s laugh had run dry, and his eyes had dulled, and his heart had stopped. But it was John who was the definition of pitiful. From his head to his toes, he was pathetic. He couldn’t let go. He had promised Jim that he would always be happy, no matter what. He had promised that he would try to lift his own spirits in any situation. Jim had only wanted the best for him, and John was disappointing to his memory. He knew that.

This was him trying. This was him finishing the game.

He was going to kill Sherlock Holmes.

~~

It was the pool. Of course it was the pool. It was the first place that Sherlock knew Jim as _Moriarty_ , the man who had been watching him and teasing him. It was the place where John had trained a gun on the man with the cheekbones and the curly hair. That had been the only interaction between John and Sherlock, and Sherlock hadn’t even been aware of it.

John waited, hidden behind a door, his heart pounding. Sherlock would be here any minute, and he wouldn’t be alone.

And all at once he heard the loud creak of the door at the opposite end of the pool. John flattened his back against the wall behind him and tried to control his breathing. Footsteps echoes through the building.

Sherlock spoke. “I know you’re here.” He paused, and John could imagine him spinning around and observing his surroundings, a glint in his eye and concentration humming through his frame.

“I just wanna know why.”

At this, John closed his eyes and forced himself to take a deep breath. With all the courage left in his body, he nudged open the door that served as the barrier between he and Sherlock.  He could see Sherlock’s back and his curly head of hair.

Sherlock spun on his heel at the noise, and they took a good, _real_ look at each other.

Their eyes met, and John’s breath caught. He couldn’t explain why he saw the similarity between this man and his Jim, but perhaps it was the clever glint in his eye. Perhaps it was the way that Sherlock held himself that reminded John of his deceased lover. Maybe it was the blunt and complete _difference_ between them that made John think of Jim. Whatever it was, it made John angry.

A searing heat built in John’s chest, a mixture of fury and fear. It roiled and slithered and caused John to throw all of his sense away.

“You’ve been trying to find me.” He spread his arms out to his sides. “Here I am.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a fraction, turning to face John a bit more fully and observing whatever he could. “Why did you want us to meet?”

John lowered his arms and took a deep breath.

Sherlock spoke again before John even thought of a response. “There is an intermittent tremor in your hands which could be attributed to the injury in your left shoulder, but is most likely the effect of your nerves. So, lack of confidence, fear of what lies ahead, but why? You worked for Moriarty,” John sucked in a quick breath and Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, “closely. Very closely. An assassin. Trained, with much experience in the art of killing, so why are you nervous now? Why, when I am nothing more than a detective, and you have those kinds of skills to defeat me with?”

John wasn’t going to ask how he knew all of that. John had been an observer when Sherlock and Jim were playing their fateful game. He knew all about Sherlock, as well. And he knew that Sherlock could identify every detail of his past with a few glances and a bout of deductive reasoning.

“That . . . was amazing.” John raised his eyebrows and looked down, his heart pounding. When he glanced up again, he met Sherlock’s gaze. He knew that the look in his own eyes was dangerous. “You’ve been looking for me, Mr. Holmes, haven’t you? For quite some time, too.”

Sherlock stepped forward slowly. “You’re the last one. The part of the web that I missed.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

The question hung in the air, all around them, and yet the look in Sherlock’s eyes did not change.

“I don’t know.”

John’s face softened, unable to hold its hostile expression under the shock that he felt when Sherlock said that.

“I don’t want to kill you, John.” Sherlock stated, testing out the use of John’s name. “I should, but something tells me I don’t need to. You aren’t malevolent in any way. If we are being completely honest, I wouldn’t have paid you any mind if you hadn’t left that letter –”

“That’s a lie.” John’s face became his shield once again at the blatant lie that had come out of Sherlock’s mouth. “You’ve been researching me, trying to find me. I may not be Jim, but I’m not an idiot.”

Understanding dawned on Sherlock’s face. “So you _have_ been tracking me.”

John took a deep breath.

“John, just because I was researching you does not mean that I was trying to kill you.”

“What were you trying to do, then?” John asked, rushed and with audible strain in his voice.

Sherlock looked at John very carefully, taking another step forward. “Would it be completely terrible of me to admit,” he said, his voice an octave lower, “that I was simply curious?”

John waited for him to explain.

“John, you are an anomaly.” Sherlock stalked forward, and John felt sick, low in his stomach. He did not have any sort of good feeling about this. “A genuinely good man, a soldier, who was turned evil by his lover, a consulting criminal, who dabbled in all sorts of questionable conduct. You weren’t turned truly evil, however. You turned mindless. You did whatever he asked of you, though you could have easily left him. I haven’t the slightest idea why.”

John recognized the truth in Sherlock’s words, but he kept his own mouth shut.

“I don’t want to kill you, John. I will offer you a proposition of sorts, however.”  At this, John’s eyes widened a fraction. Exactly what was this detective trying to do?

Sherlock stepped forward. At this point he was so near to John that he could reach out and touch him. “Someone with your loyalty and skill could be valuable to me. You no longer seem to have the will to live, and it would be a shame if you were wasted.”

John was no longer breathing. He was waiting with anticipation for Sherlock’s next statement.

“I’ve got a flat, John. You know it, you’ve been there. I could offer you cheap accommodation, and most importantly, work.”

John waited a tick to truly comprehend the words. So, Sherlock was offering him a place to live and a job. He was offering him _purpose_. John would be solving cases by facts and deductions. He would no longer be creating cases for Sherlock to study. It was a new idea. And John wasn’t particularly _un_ happy with it.

“Does Detective Inspector Lestrade know about your intent to make me your partner?” John looked straight into Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. “I’m sure that with a bit of introduction to the idea he will be amenable.”

“He’ll want me arrested. As soon he knows that you have me.” John expected Sherlock to crack. He expected the man in front of him to reveal what he was really trying to do, but then John knew that this man wasn’t easy to crack.

“Consider it. It’s bound to be better than what you had before, Johnny.”

John froze.

_“You should live with me. You’re already working for me, so I don’t see where the harm lies. It’s got to be better than your desolate bedsit, Johnny-boy.”_

Time stopped, and images of Jim flew at John and collided with him like a punch to the face. Sherlock had crossed the line, whether he was aware of it or not.

“Don’t call me that!” John felt like his head was about to explode, and he saw red, and then white, and the pain behind his eyes became unbearable.

With a great cry he threw himself at Sherlock and wrapped his hands around his throat. He ignored the gun that he brought with him even though it pressed at his hip. Somehow this felt more personal. It gave him a sense of peace and accomplishment to feel Sherlock’s erratic pulse struggling underneath his fingertips. He saw the panicked glint in Sherlock’s watery eyes and he felt _powerful_. He had control over the person who had more control than most people in the world. Tears were streaming down his twisted face. This was the way it was meant to be. It felt right.

John didn’t hear anything other than the pounding in his ears. There was an entire disaster unfolding around him and he was deaf to it because of the bliss that he felt at his fingertips.

Lestrade’s voice boomed into the room from the right, the opposite end from the pool. “Sherlock, are you here? You just disappeared from the crime scene! You can’t do that! And out of everyone, why did you tell Mrs, Hudson that you were here? You could’ve –”

Subsequently, he heard the noises of struggle. Flailing limbs and choked breaths, and Lestrade walked in alone.

It was only the flick of a coat that caught John’s attention, too late. Lestrade saw him, his hands wrapped around Sherlock’s throat, the intent to kill still clear in his eyes.

John panicked and his fingers loosened. He tried standing up to explain himself – he already knew that Lestrade had been on the look-out for him, and finding him with his hands wrapped around the Detective Inspector’s mate probably wasn’t the best way to introduce himself.

John tried to raise his hands in the air, and there was so much shouting, and John was looking everywhere at once. He backed up, and his heel hit the edge of the pool, and Sherlock was sitting up and yelling at Lestrade, and Lestrade was reaching into his coat with a shaking hand and unkind eyes.

And when John finally understood what was happening, what Lestrade was doing, it was entirely too late for him to try to run, so he just shut his eyes and tried not to scream, not to sob, because that was the last thing he wanted to do before he died.

He felt red in his chest, and the impact sent him flying backwards, his arms outstretched like an angel. He hit the surface of the pool. Water flowed through him, around him, over him, and he sucked in one final breath before he felt nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's all done! Thank you for reading. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think! Comment and give kudos if you feel like it! I love you so much if you got through this.


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